


Lost

by ofvanity



Series: L'Objet Petit A [1]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Insomnia, Metaphysics, Subdrop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofvanity/pseuds/ofvanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is a displacement in reality," Sherlock says, as if he were retelling the weather report.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote that Joan/Marcus/Sherlock fic and it felt odd-ish so I thought I should explore the individual aspects of their relationships, starting with Joan and Sherlock, specifically for this part: how Joan helps Sherlock.

For all that Sherlock is a very active person, he rarely touches Joan. And for all that Joan is perceptive, she never realizes it until they touch. That was until during a drive-by, he ducked beneath a car with her and they were so close her eyelashes brushed his cheekbone. It was startlingly intimate and Joan has been carefully observant of the distance they keep ever since.

At his worst, or what he considers his best, he doesn't move at all. He's at the eye of a storm of photos on Tuesday morning. There's tea on counter farthest from him but it's gone cold and so Sherlock has been up all night, judging by that and the shoes he's left outside the circle, the same ones he wore yesterday. All the photos are the same exact image blown up in various spots and in various magnifications. It's two young people smiling at the camera at the fair. The copies are fresh but the photo looks old, Joan would guess 1963 by the haircuts and clothes.

He's at his worst, Joan can tell, because he's not even sitting, he's crouching in the middle and talking to himself. He's probably too tired to be useful in whatever it is he's doing. They don't even have a case on.

"Sherlock," Joan says and sets her fresh cup of tea down beside his cold one.

He doesn't look up at her, only continues to chew his thumbnail in between his mutterings.

"Sherlock," she repeats, sternly.

He snaps his head up at that and meets her gaze for a moment before turning away again.

"What are you even doing, it's like six in the morning?"

"There is a displacement in reality," Sherlock says, as if he were retelling the weather report. "A disconnection between how I perceive it and its existence or lack thereof."

His words are alarming and for a moment, Joan thinks that Sherlock has relapsed. In another moment, she dispels the thought and abandons her tea, standing at attention. "How so?" Joan parts the outer edges of the moat of photos, trying to get to him without alarming him.

"I perceive, through my eyes and my speech, and so I understand a reality," he says, making air quotes around 'reality', "But this understanding is dictated by language, my truths are only truths in that they exist in words, a language created in preconceived decisions about the relationship between meaning and sound. Reality is outside of the symbolic systems of communication, outside of words, photographs, music, art and that makes it unattainable. There is no such thing as truth, everything is mediated, everything is decanted and flooded with the filth of constant social decisions." He looks up at Joan, through red-rimmed eyes and watches her delicately part the sea of photos. He bows his head, scrubbing his eyes with his hands, "Nothing is real."

Joan forces herself to keep her voice as nonchalant as possible, halfway through the photos. "What about the photos?"

"There is something wrong with them. But I can't see it because it's not real."

It strikes Joan that the night before, Sherlock was playing six TVs at once all night and the night before that he spent the night on the roof, looking into his telescope. This is his third night without sleep. Joan reaches him and reaches out to take his hand, "We're going to sleep, Sherlock."

He looks wary, almost hesitant to accept her decision but then asks, "Is it time already?"

"Yes," Joan says firmly and Sherlock turns his hand over in her palm and clutches it.

She leads him up the stairs to his room, hands clutched together lightly and Sherlock's steps following clumsily up the stairs behind her. At the landing, he turns towards her, and there are tears in his eyes and close to streaming down his face. His voice cracks as he asks so quietly Joan nearly misses it, "Can you stay with me?"

His room is relatively bare, save for a dresser and a bed. Clyde is watching them both from his position in his tank on top of the dresser. Sherlock shuts his eyes and curls into the blankets. He's awake but definitely not lucid and he says, "Play with my hair, Joan."

Joan thinks of all the times she's kept herself from touching him and strokes his hair until she falls asleep.

-

They don't talk about it for a few days. Joan comes home after another blind date and finds Marcus sitting beside Sherlock in front of the fireplace. Marcus isn't wearing shoes or a jacket, tie loose around his neck. There is a file box between them and papers and photos strewn around the floor. No storm this time and no eye thereof. 

Joan shakes the snow off her boots and coat and sheds layers of sweaters to join them. Sherlock doesn't look her in the eye until she says his name. "What are you two doing?"

"Detective Bell has brought me a cold case, in exchange for a favor earlier this week."

"What favor?"

Bell cuts in here, "Just some advice on my detective process. You know how he loves to tell us when we're wrong," then quickly adds, "What time is it?"

"Just after midnight."

"Damn, it's late. I should get going."

"Are you sure? We could get some takeout and you could sleep on the couch?"

"Yes, Detective Bell," Sherlock says, with a coy smile on his lips Joan's not sure she likes. "Stay."

Marcus chuckles almost uncomfortably and Joan gets the distinct impression that something is going unsaid between them. "No, I need to get home, I'm expecting a package early tomorrow morning, it's important and I have to sign for it, so." 

He collects his suit jacket and shoes, piecing himself together haphazardly, "But thank you for the invitation. It was nice seeing you, Joan. Let me know if anything comes up on the case, okay, Sherlock? I'll see you."

"Uh, yeah," Joan agrees, but he's out the door so quickly, Joan doubts he even heard her.

When she turns back to him, Sherlock is gone. She pursues the sound of his footsteps into the kitchen, where he's putting on a pot of coffee. Joan hesitates but figures this is a good a time as any, "Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Here we go," Sherlock announces lightly and then rounds to meet her. "I've got a case."

"A cold case. No reason for you to be awake all night."

"Watson, a young man was found dead and his murderer has been free for over three years. I do not intend to add anymore days to their vacation. Please skirt around the subtleties and arrive at your point."

Joan doesn't miss a beat, "What happened to you the other night? I know you didn't relapse and I know it wasn't the lack of sleep, I've seen you stay awake longer. What was the matter?"

Sherlock strides across the kitchen, opening the cabinets in search for a coffee mug. With his back turned to her and nose deep in a new cabinet, he replies, "Subdrop." After a beat of silence, he turns to face her again, no mug in hand, but doesn't add a word.

Joan lifts an eyebrow, "Is that all you're going to say?"

"Thank you," Sherlock says curtly and adds with an aborted wave of his hand, "For the aftercare. It's very likely that I only managed to pull myself together in the days following because of your assistance."

"How are you doing now?" Joan asks.

Sherlock turns away from her again, to wash a dirty mug in the sink. "Better. Not to worry, the appropriate party has been notified and my emotional state has stabilized. I apologize for putting you into that position but in all fairness, at the time, I was not entirely in control of myself."

"It's fine," Joan says, crossing the kitchen to stop his wandering and make him look at her for a second, "Just ensure me you're being safe."

Sherlock meets her gaze and fires a paper-thin grin. "Safe as houses, Watson. Now are you going to help me catch a murderer or not?"


End file.
